


Nor Ever Chaste

by ren_makoto



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, M/M, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ren_makoto/pseuds/ren_makoto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are we going to do this at my place, or yours?" Clark asked.<br/>Bruce didn't change the subject or shy away, didn't even blink. "Mine," he said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nor Ever Chaste

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, we have porn without actual porn. Even if you think this makes no sense, it absolutely makes sense.

 

It was a black tie affair. Bruce Wayne had actually shown; he was in the center of the room, bowing elegantly over Lois' hand and kissing it with a soft brush of his lips. It gave Clark a weird tug at his heart because he didn't know which one to look at.

Or, rather, which one to look at more because he couldn't turn away from the tableau. He felt…strange.

And Clark Kent was on hand, but not to report. He was there as a guest, the same as all the Daily Planet staff who had made the short trip to Gotham for a night of wine, music, and dancing.

"Clark Kent, Daily Planet," he said to any strangers who bothered to ask. Not too many people did. But Clark did get a few appreciative looks because he was  _dressed_ for the event. Granted, he couldn't lose the hideous glasses —because well,  _Superman_ —but he could wear a nice, tailored tuxedo (the kind working with Lois necessitated he own), spend a little time on his hair, and actually refuse to slouch or stumble. Today, it really was just the glasses keeping everyone from seeing that the greatest hero in the universe worked for a newspaper. One that had barely been saved from financial ruin by one bored Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne, who had called a press conference and explained the entire purchase by saying, "I think it would be fun to run a newspaper!" and Clark had no idea how many people reporting on that story actually caught the reference to "Citizen Kane."

More importantly, he had no idea who knew that Bruce hadn't bought a newspaper on a whim. Bruce had bought a newspaper for  _Clark_. Clark knew it; Bruce  _knew_  that Clark knew it; and Clark…well, he wasn't sure how to show gratitude to Batman, even when Batman was pretending to be Bruce Wayne, businessman.

And here Clark was, celebrating the salvation of his job in Gotham with the spoiled, favorite son of the city who had saved it. Celebrating the salvation of Lois' job. Of the Daily Planet. It was worth celebrating, of course. Clark just didn't feel exactly right about the whole thing. No one had ever purchased an entire newspaper for him before. The only thing that compared was Lana writing him a poem in high school once. It had been…well. It had been a pretty terrible poem.

Clark tugged on his bow tie and feigned drinking his champagne—it was authentic champagne, actually from France. Of course it was: Bruce Wayne could afford it. Clark's drink was warm and not even bubbly anymore, but nobody was looking too closely. All the Daily Planet employees were looking at all the glamorous people and movie stars and socialites.

The glamorous people and movie stars and socialites, in turn, were all looking at Bruce Wayne.

Two bottle blondes air-kissed just beneath Clark's elbow.

"Daaahhling! You look Daaahhling! Mwa, mwa!"

"And isn't your dress divine! Mwa, mwa!"

"Did you  _see_  him?"

"I  _did_. He really is like a prince! Let's go stand near him, see if we can snag his attention."

"But he's talking to that reporter woman…"

"We can distract him," said the first bottle blonde.

Clark was very good at not rolling his eyes, so he didn't. He took one step to the left to escape the scheming socialites and decided to find something else to look at. Anything but Bruce and Lois. Because no, the socialites didn't have an ice cube's chance in hell of competing with Lois. She looked like a woman very aware of her charms and who knew she had no need to use them since her mind was such a well-oiled machine. And because Bruce was, well,  _Bruce_.

And he really had to stop staring.

But the pair of them—Lois and Bruce—dragged Clark's eyes back effortlessly. Or maybe Clark wasn't trying that hard. After all, why not follow the fold and do what everyone else was doing? Bruce was handsome and Lois was lovely, so why not look? And Bruce had created for himself a laugh like music, easy to listen to, uplifting. And his teeth were so white and his hair so black and shiny. He was tall and well-built and charming and suave. He was easy on the eyes.

But…

Well, looking at Bruce came with problems. Or just one big problem to be more precise: it was difficult not to  _listen_  to Bruce, too, and Bruce often said things that raised Clark's hackles.

"I see Daily Planet employees know how to have a good time," Bruce said, all charm, gesturing to the room of drinking reporters and copyeditors mingling with the rich and famous.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne," Lois whispered, "you have  _no_  idea."

"Perhaps you could give me the dirt?" Bruce said with a leer.

"I could give you a front-page expose that would make a prostitute blush."

"Surely all of you can't be so debauched?" Bruce said on a laugh. "Some of you must be, well, Boy Scouts! Stiff. Boring. Stick in the mud types?" he added. Clark didn't bother not to roll his eyes this time. He'd get Bruce back for that later.

"Only one of those on staff," Lois huffed. "Everyone else is scandalous."

"Hmm," Bruce drawled and took a small sip of his bubbly. "Even you, dear Lois? I imagined you as quite demur…"

"That, Mr. Wayne, I have never been accused of," Lois said and raised her glass to Bruce.

"Do tell me  _more_ ," Bruce said and leaned in closer, clanking his glass to hers. "Surely there's even dirt on your lone Boy Scout. I'd love to hear all about it."

And that was just about enough of that, Clark decided. And he didn't do things by half. So he pushed through the gawking crowd—right past the bottle blonde socialites—and stopped before tiny Lois, looked straight at her, and suddenly realized that it was Bruce, not Lois, who was at the heart of this—this being a feeling of jealousy; discomfort in his chest. Bruce was the cause and the cure. When was he not?

So he stepped around Lois and walked up to Mr. Bruce Wayne in his nice tuxedo and said, "Mr. Wayne, Clark Kent, we've met a few times," and shook Bruce's hand just firmly enough that Bruce would give him trouble about it later.

And Bruce's pulse leapt as their hands touched—Clark heard it,  _felt_ it—and Bruce squeezed right back and his eyes wandered up and down Clark's tuxedo, lingered and—

Well, shit.

 _Well, shit,_  in fact, became Clark's mantra for the night. He didn't usually curse, even to himself, but this was the kind of time when it was warranted. He could have lived forever lusting after Bruce and not having him because Clark was used to not having the things he wanted. A normal life, a sense of belonging, the knowledge that he wasn't alone in the universe—these were things that he'd gotten used to living without; and sex with Bruce Wayne had slotted right into the list just fine, right below faith that the world wouldn't need Superman one day.

But here was more solid proof than he'd ever gotten that the attraction was mutual. Better proof than ten years worth of long glances he couldn't read; of accidental touches; of Bruce's maddening aloofness co-existing with his over-protectiveness. Ten years of trying to understand both Batman's faith in and frustration with Superman. Here was Bruce's guard down long enough just to give Clark a glimpse of what had been behind it all. Yes, here was proof. And Clark had no idea what to do about it.

"Ah, Mr. Kent. Yes. I remember. It's the accent. Difficult to forget. Was it the South? Louisiana?" Bruce inquired as he released Clark's hand at last.

He didn't think about what he said to Bruce before he spoke. He could remember it perfectly later on—of course—but as he spoke to Bruce, he was just on automatic pilot.

"It's Midwestern, Mr. Wayne," Clark heard himself say. "Kansas. I'm from a small farm town called Smallville."

"I believe I've driven through there," Bruce said, blandly disinterested, just making polite conversation. But then Bruce ruined the disinterested front by adding, "Perhaps I should have stopped for the night."

His eyes went hot as he said it and his gaze took a trip up and down Clark again. Clark had no idea if anybody else saw. He didn't actually care. The room had long since faded away, leaving nothing but Bruce; the aura around him that seemed to beat at Clark like a jackhammer.

Clark sputtered something ludicrous about Bruce stopping by the farm anytime, feeling flushed and flustered. He was Clark Kent, after all: he tripped over air on a regular basis; always stained his shirt with coffee. The fact that Clark wasn't acting this time was probably only apparent to Bruce.

"Hmm. An open invitation? Perhaps I'll take you up on that," Bruce whispered.

 _Well, shit,_  popped into Clark's head again right then. He wasn't capable of many higher brain functions. What was going on?

Clark was aware of Lois rolling her eyes all the way down there—she really was tiny. And she was probably pretty upset with Clark for ruining her chance to pump the new boss for information. Clark wanted to care, but couldn't stop staring at Bruce, mindlessly answering his questions; selfishly blocking anybody else's chance to talk to him; and all while trying to figure out what, exactly, had caused Bruce's pulse to leap like that when Clark touched him. More importantly, he was trying to figure out what all of this was: the long looks, the flirtatious banter, which Clark had never really been on the receiving end of before. Did any of it mean anything at all?

The whole conversation with Bruce couldn't have lasted for more than five minutes, but it was a stretched, tension-filled five minutes for Clark when he recalled it later.

Bruce shook his hand again, made some excuse to leave. Lois tried every trick to get him to stay in their cluster of three, but Bruce was adamant that he had to go talk to Perry, to the Press. And then Bruce was walking away, leaving a very confused Clark Kent behind.

"Thanks a lot, Smallville," Lois grumbled when Bruce was out of earshot.

"What did I do?" Clark asked, scratching at the back of his head. His heart wasn't really in the act, but Lois didn't seem to notice.

"You scared him away with all your farm talk. If you'd left me alone with him, I could have figured out what made him buy a failing paper."

"Well," Clark tried, "he's a businessman. He probably just did it to make more money."

Lois gave him an acid glare. "He took a loss," she said. "This paper was a terrible investment for him. I think it's a passion project. A dare. Maybe blackmail. Some kind of whim." She drummed her nails on her chin and then wandered off, that determined look on her face to find a story—any story—and run it down like a hunting dog.

Clark sighed.  _Some kind of whim_ , indeed.

He was alone again and he couldn't quite keep himself from listening to Bruce as he moved through the room, charming and baffling everyone he encountered.

"How hard can it be?" Bruce asked too loudly. "Papers just run themselves, right?"

But surely even Bruce had to tire of his own act. After the party kicked into high gear, Bruce caught Clark's eye across the massive ballroom.

Clark gave him a long look that said, "Come on, Bruce, no more games." Clark could see the resignation on Bruce's face, the visible equivalent of a sigh. Bruce's eyes flicked to the balcony, then back to Clark. They slid off again quickly and the moment passed as if it had never been.

It took a few minutes for Bruce to exit through the balcony doors. Clark watched him and knew that something was about to change once he joined him outside. He felt like he was standing on one side of a very dangerous bridge. The other side of it was either the best thing in the world, or something certain to kill him. Nothing with Bruce was ever gray; he lived in stark black and white, everything in its place.

He could ignore the summons; stay inside with the safe socialites and safe Lois. Or he could cross that bridge and nothing would ever be the same again. It wasn't even a difficult decision, really.

Clark followed Bruce outside five minutes later when everyone was just drunk enough not to notice the absence of Gotham's favorite son. The wall facing the balcony was all tall, glass windows so Clark had no idea how much privacy they would have, but he trusted Bruce to know what they could get away with. And besides, what chance did anyone have of sneaking up on Superman?

It was a warm, balmy night in Gotham. It had rained the day before and the air was still sharp with it, clean and fresh. Gotham was all black silhouetted towers draped in bright yellow, flickering lights. Moonlight reflected off of the water in the distance and beyond the river, a train barreled across the landscape, blaring warning of its passing through the night.

The balcony wrapped around two sides of the building and Clark had to walk almost to the end of it to find Bruce who was looking out over the city like he owned it. And Clark guessed that, in many ways, Bruce did. He looked magnificent.

Bruce glanced at him—a hard, thoughtful stare—then looked away again. Clark took a moment to take in the setting. Of course Bruce had found a way for them to be alone: they were obscured from anyone in the ballroom by a cluster of potted trees and shrubs placed artfully before the windows and doors. He came to stand next to Bruce, wondering if Bruce would look at him again.

"So," Clark said.

"So," Bruce said back and Clark laughed nervously. This wasn't a situation he had ever expected to end up in.

"So…that was a surprise," Clark said. "Um…not the flirting," Clark clarified. "Not exactly."

"I knew what you meant, Clark."

"Oh. Out of curiosity, was the flirting…part of…this?"

"Yes and no," Bruce answered.

"Well, that was helpful. Thanks," Clark said, sarcasm dripping off every letter. "So…can I ask you something?"

"Mm," was the reply he got from Bruce and Clark knew that talking to Bruce could be like pulling teeth sometimes, but this was bad even for him. This was  _alligator_  teeth.

"Is this a new thing?" Clark tried.

Bruce waited long enough to answer that Clark jumped when he finally said, "No."

"Right," Clark said and exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Nice to know," he said.

And it  _was_  nice to know in a lot of ways. It was bizarre to think that Bruce had deliberately hidden his reaction to Clark for years only to let it slip tonight of all nights. If the slip had been deliberate—like the flirting—Clark didn't know. He wanted to ask, but figured he'd get another non-answer. Instead, he figured he'd just wing it, see what it got him.

"It can't be that surprising," Bruce whispered.

Clark rocked on his heels a few times, hands deep in his pockets. "Well. I guess not. You bought a newspaper for me."

"I did," Bruce admitted, and knowing that Bruce would buy newspapers for him was one thing, but hearing Bruce own up to it was a different thing entirely. It made Clark's insides flutter around and twist. Not unpleasantly, just persistently, like a thousand drunken butterflies were flapping away inside him.

"Did I thank you?" he asked, trying to make the flapping subside.

"No."

"Oh, well. Thank you."

"Mm," was all that Clark's gratitude earned him, so he tried a different approach.

"It's mutual, you know," he admitted with a careless shrug.

Bruce looked at him again, just a quick glance. "That's probably bad news," he said.

"You're telling me," Clark said, but Bruce didn't add anything after that, leaving Clark to scramble for the next bit of conversation.

"Are we…going to do anything about it?" Clark almost didn't say.

There was another famous silence from Bruce. Then, "Do you want to?"

"Yes. You?"

"I…yes."

Clark fell into his own silence then. He realized now that he always suspected that Bruce would dodge this issue were it ever to come up. But he was hardly going to mess up this chance just because he'd been caught unaware.

"Now?" Clark asked and it got him a single bow of Bruce's head, so slight he almost missed it.

"Are we going to do this at my place, or yours?" Clark asked. His expression was open and hopeful. Bruce didn't change the subject or shy away, didn't even blink.

"Mine," he said.

Clark nodded, waited because he could tell when Bruce was making a plan.

At last Bruce said, "Meet me there after the party ends." Then he walked back towards the balcony doors. Only, he stopped again after only a few steps, hesitated, turned, looked at Clark, and swept his eyes up and down slowly. "Keep the tux," he said. Then he turned on his heels and stalked away from Clark with those long, easy strides of his.

Over his shoulder he tossed, "Lose the glasses."

Clark watched him, curious, flattered, and terrified.

* * *

 

 

The Cave was always just a little creepy. Clark was too used to the bright, wide skies of Kansas and even the bright, wide skies of Metropolis. Bruce's world was so unlike his it was a shock every time. Even after all these years. Dark and damp and murky with shadows, the Cave was a difficult aspect of Bruce to contend with. Everything that Bruce embodied was bigger than just this—this lonely cave and it's impenetrable dark—but it was hard to gauge how much space in his mind Bruce let the Batman occupy at any given time. The Cave was like a temple to that difficulty with all the space it took up on the land; how it grew and expanded as it was filled up—year after year—with more and more gadgets and trophies. Meanwhile, the mansion above it remained largely unchanged.

Bruce didn't roar into the Batcave in the car tonight. Instead, he walked down the steps, tugging on his bow tie absently—arriving like a man, not a legend. Clark wondered if that was going to be the tone of the evening: two men coming to terms with such normal things: attraction, affection, camaraderie.

"Clark," Bruce greeted.

"Bruce," Clark said in reply, a smile at the corner of his lips. He could see Bruce's eyes travel down his frame again. They shone with obvious appreciation, so the slight, stifling discomfort of the formal wear was worth it. Clark was suddenly glad he had done as Bruce requested and kept the tuxedo on and left his glasses in Metropolis. He felt like a strange hybrid of himself, but in a good way. Well, he  _was_  in a suit, after all, just not the one with a cape.

Bruce reached the ground floor and stood about ten feet away from Clark. "This way," he said and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Clark followed as Bruce led him through the familiar twists and turns of the Cave. In a clean, well-hewn room deep inside the labyrinth was a table, chairs, and a dumbwaiter, of all things.

When Bruce lifted the door of the dumbwaiter, there were big glasses of lemonade with perfect cubes of ice, and two big sandwiches with chips.

Clark's stomach gave a growl at the sight. He hadn't eaten at the event and he could tell that these had been made by Alfred, which meant they were delicious. He never told his mom, but Alfred was a better cook. They sat down and dug in.

Clark made an appreciative noise and took a big bite. Bruce only ate half of his, but Clark was finished in minutes. The lemonade was fresh squeezed and sweet and Clark drank almost all of it to wash down the sandwich.

Bruce had a thoughtful look on his face, studying Clark over the rim of his glass. Clark looked back. The curiosity he'd felt earlier hadn't abated. He'd never been in a situation like this before. He didn't know if Bruce had before, either. He had a feeling he hadn't.

"So…now what?"

Bruce cocked his head to one side. "We talk," he said.

Clark let his disappointment show. He even scrunched his face and stuck out his tongue playfully. He felt light as air, like everything would untangle and make sense soon.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him, then lowered his lemonade. He waved at Clark with a casual flick of his wrist. "You go first," he said.

Clark smiled. The situation was surreal. In his imaginings, when their feelings for each other came to light, they did very little talking. Talking, in fact, was the last thing they did. Clark should have figured that Bruce would never do what he expected him to do. And maybe he'd only get one shot at this. So he smiled again and jumped in head first.

"I want you," he said simply and the words made Bruce blink at him, very slowly.

Clark didn't think he was likely to get a response for some time so he just pressed on. "I have from almost the beginning. I want you. Bruce. Batman," he couldn't stop his sudden burst of laughter as he added, " _Matches Malone_."

Bruce looked skeptical, so Clark shrugged. "Hey, don't knock him. He's…sleazy. It's kind of hot. Like there's nothing he wouldn't do."

Bruce had apparently dropped his guard for their talk, because he was letting all the little emotions show, even ones he usually locked away. Now, Bruce looked a little shocked.

"He'd be no good for you," Bruce said. "He's a scoundrel."

"Oh, I know," Clark agreed. "It's just the idea of him. Maybe a one night stand?" He smiled expansively and waggled his eyebrows, which actually got a small smile from Bruce. It was so good to see, that Clark tried to make it last.

"I know he'd never call me or anything. That's part of the appeal," he said. "Love 'em and leave 'em, you know? With him, I want something like that. With  _you_ , on the other hand…" he said and let the implication hang in the air.

Bruce sighed. "Wanting something and actually getting it are two different things," he said.

Clark let his smile fade. "So we're being serious now?"

"Yes."

Some of Clark's good feeling was seeping away, like it was sliding out of his pours and away into the dark of the cave. "You're going to tell me we can't have anything at all, aren't you?"

Bruce hesitated. He seemed to be forming the sentences he wanted to say very carefully.

"Believe it or not, I have thought about this, Clark."

"Oh, I believe it," Clark muttered.

Bruce plowed right over him with, "And I can't see a way for it to work."

"I'm sure you'll tell me why now," Clark said. He couldn't stop his smirk.

"Will you listen if I do?"

Clark's head bobbed from side to side as he thought. "Depends. I'm sure I've got a counterargument for everything you say, so get it out of your system. I'll humor you."

Bruce's eyes sparked at the word 'humor' but Clark didn't back down.

"Firstly, we're teammates," Bruce said at last. "A romantic relationship would compromise the team's safety."

"Dinah and Ollie are fine," Clark argued.

"They're impulsive and reckless about each other. I would prefer they were never on the same team again if it could be avoided."

Clark suddenly understood something terrible. "That explains the recent mission rosters a little bit," he said. "You never told me."

"You'd have protested that they work perfectly well together. I would have shown you evidence to the contrary. We would have argued. I would have won. You would have called Diana, who would have agreed with me. I would have won again. The outcome of telling you or not telling you…" And here Bruce gave an elegant shrug and Clark hated him just a little bit right then.

"I'd argue with you about this, too, but it won't get me what I want," Clark said.

He knew Bruce wouldn't ask "What do you want?" since Clark had already told him very certainly what he wanted. And Bruce had filed the information away. Now Clark had to wait to learn what Bruce would do with it. Without a doubt Bruce had some kind of outcome he hoped for. He would have avoided talking to Clark about their mutual attraction if he hadn't wanted to deal with it. He would have pretended that his pulse quickening at Clark's touch was nothing at all, that it hadn't even happened at all.

They could have gone another ten years or so just circling around each other, being polite; being teammates; never talking about it. The fact that Bruce agreed to discuss this at all meant that there was something he wanted as well. Clark was very curious about what that might be.

Instead, Bruce said, "Let's follow that thread for a second: What you want is change. Which leads me to the second item on my list: Things are good as they are, aren't they?"

It was an earnest question, so Clark gave it the thought it deserved. He was happy to know Bruce. He respected him, liked working with him, and trusted him. They were friends. And Clark had come to know over the years that Bruce felt the same way about him, even if he hid it behind the gruff, Batman exterior. But Clark would be lying if he said that he was satisfied with the way things were.

"Let me be honest since we're airing all this out, okay?"

Bruce nodded once, a slow, cautious movement.

"I'll always be your friend. We've got a lot of history together. But I'll always regret not trying to have something  _more_ with you. If we can have more, I want more. That's just the facts."

Bruce gave a small headshake. "Define 'more,'" he said. His voice was low and dark and it seemed to rumble through Clark. There was something desperate in Bruce's eyes, like he needed to hear this. Clark would normally be pretty embarrassed, but this was Bruce. If he couldn't be honest with Bruce, then who could he be honest with?

"Is that number three on your list? Definitions?"

"Yes," Bruce said and Clark was sure that it was true. "You were saying? More?" Bruce prompted.

"More….right," Clark said and then took a deep breath. "More…so, wish list items? Um. Kissing would be nice, for a start," he said and somehow managed to keep looking into Bruce's eyes. They had gone dark and Clark imagined them as pools of shadows like the kind Batman lurked in as he hunted down the superstitious and cowardly criminals of Gotham.

"Go on," Bruce said.

"And I've been the Boy Scout you always accuse me of being because I haven't even peeked at you naked. Not even on the Watchtower."

"Not even once?" Bruce asked, sounding skeptical.

"Not even once," Clark said. "And it's been killing me. So, yes, you naked would be nice. On a bed. With me. After that, I'm flexible."

Bruce didn't speak, which gave Clark time to think. Which explained why Clark suddenly remembered that he did, in fact, have an item on his list he was forgetting about.

"Oh, and on the Car," he said.

Bruce's mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"

Clark gestured vaguely in the direction of the tarmac. "On the Car," he explained. "In it would be good, too, but it's kind of cramped in there, so I'm going for on the hood."

Bruce was blinking at him. Under his breath he said, "What is it with people and the  _Car?_ " There was genuine frustration in his tone.

Clark shrugged. "It's a pretty hot car," he said, since he was being honest and all.

Bruce took what Clark decided was a steadying breath. "Have you ever had sex on the hood of a car before?"

Clark shook his head. "No. You?"

"Yes."

At Clark's raised eyebrow, Bruce explained, "Selena."

"Ah," said Clark. "That makes sense in a strange, Batman way. Was it comfortable?"

"I didn't think so," Bruce said. "Selena asked to do it again. I said no. I keep saying no. One time only."

"Per person?" Clark inquired.

"Clark…" Bruce intoned, but it wasn't exactly a warning. It was…Clark had no idea what it was.

"Okay, okay," Clark said and held his hands up in front of him. "I surrender," his hands said.

Bruce looked relieved, but it was short-lived. He went tense again when Clark said, "But, yes, beyond the physical, I guess I want you to be mine. My boyfriend? Sounds silly, but there it is. It would be a relationship. We'd be together and that would be the long and the short of it. If I had my way."

Bruce clasped his hands before his face and pressed his forehead against them. "You don't make things easy, Clark."

"I guess not."

"And I don't understand you," Bruce added, eyes closed.

"I think that's my line," Clark laughed.

"You'd be a good boyfriend," Bruce said.

"Yep," Clark agreed.

"I'd be terrible at it."

"No arguments, there."

"Sex wouldn't be enough?"

Clark balked. "Sex would be a start. Wouldn't you like to hold hands in a movie theater?"

"Now you're just pulling my leg."

Clark smiled and looked at the table. "Maybe," he whispered. Then he laughed again, shook his head at the silliness of a world where he couldn't go to a movie with Bruce and hold his hand because they were too busy fighting aliens and madmen and maintaining secret identities and because both of them were terrified of losing someone. They already meant so much to each other. How much worse would it be if they  _could_  hold hands in a theater?

"Okay, your turn to answer questions," Clark said.

"I hadn't finished—"

"Hadn't finished with a scripted list of reasons why we can't sleep together? I think I get the idea. I don't actually want to hear any of that, Bruce."

"Which is why you need to hear it,  _Clark_ ," Bruce said from between his teeth. He didn't like being interrupted and Clark knew that. However, Clark was also Superman, which meant he got to interrupt when he wanted to.

"Okay, well it sounds like a list you've been saving up, so we can get back to it later if it really matters that much to you. In the meantime, tell me: What do  _you_  want?"

Bruce looked down at his hands. "I don't think you really want to know that," Bruce answered.

"Oh, I really do," Clark said with false brightness. "I just admitted to having a fantasy of you fucking me on the hood of your car. I expect a little reciprocity."

Clark heard Bruce's pulse quicken. He heard Bruce's breath stop; could almost see the tension as Bruce fought to keep his face expressionless. It was a victory in a way.

Bruce sighed. "Clark, there are no words to explain all the things I want to do to you," he growled. Bruce had a miraculous understanding of when to channel the Bat and how. The timing on this was perfect to a fault.

Clark's throat went dry. He managed to croak out, "Try."

Bruce still didn't look up. To the table he said, "I want to lick you from head to toe. Slowly. I want to hear you beg. I want to suck you off, let you fuck my throat."

And Clark found himself shaking his head up and down. It all sounded pretty good so far.

"Tell me more," Clark said, still croaking. "What happens after I fuck your throat?" There was an inconvenient heat between his legs, a slow hardening. His interest was beyond peaked.

But Bruce only shook his head. "Let's get back to my list of why we can't do any of that."

Clark stuck his tongue out again. "Just when it was getting good? Do we have to?"

"Yes," Bruce said, but his smile was shyly trying to be noticed, just there at the corner of his kissable mouth.

"Okay, fine," Clark huffed. "Okay, work with me here. Say you're right. Say that list of reasons why we can't…hang on…how many items are on that list?"

"Fifty two," said Bruce.

"My Lord," Clark exclaimed. "No way are we going down that list tonight." Clark squinted at Bruce. "Unless you're joking. Are you joking?"

"You'll never know, Clark."

"Hmmm," Clark said, the thoughtful noise filled with a healthy dose of irritation for Bruce. "So, as I was saying, say you're right. Say that list of fifty-two reasons we can't ever be more than friends is undeniable. Does that rule out everything?"

"Meaning?" Bruce asked.

"Meaning…we get it out of our systems. Once."

One of Bruce's perfect eyebrows went up. "Once?" he said.

Clark shook his head yes. "Just once. I get to kiss you as much as I want. You can lick me from head to toe. Believe me: You can absolutely do that." Clark's smile was lacking humor as he looked away from Bruce as he finished with, "I'll fuck your throat. I'll fuck you. And when it's all over, we go back to the way things were. The way things were before the party tonight. We'll never talk about it. We'll pretend it never happened. We'll be friends, just like now. We can…take the edge off."

The silence was painful this time. The only interruption from the stretched noiselessness was Bruce suddenly drumming his fingers on the table. Five rhythmic thuds; perfectly spaced, repetitive. Clark didn't believe Bruce had never considered this option. He wondered briefly if Bruce had decided on this solution when he invited Clark over. The sandwiches, the lemonade, the list of fifty-two reasons. Had it all been leading up the consolation prize Bruce had decided on before even meeting him on the balcony?

Bruce's fingers stilled. "Would you be able to pull back from that?"

Clark shrugged. "Would you?"

"Yes," Bruce said and it hurt in some weird, knife-twisting way that Clark knew Bruce was telling the truth. He could shut it off. He would shut it off. If his feelings for Clark ever interfered with his Mission, with the League, with Gotham, Bruce would stop feeling those things as easily as flipping off a switch.

"Ouch," Clark said honestly. "Fine. Okay. But you have a list of reasons why we can't even have this  _once_ , too, don't you?"

"A smaller list," Bruce agreed.

"Number one?"

"I don't know how much you can control your powers when you're aroused."

Clark gaped at him. "You're…afraid of me?"

"No. Not exactly. If you tell me I have nothing to be afraid of, I'll believe you. Have you ever hurt one of your lovers?"

Clark winced. "Not in a long time. I've learned to control myself."

Bruce shook his head up and down with this unsurprised look on his face. "So you hold back, you're gentle to the point of excess. You don't get off."

Clark had to shrug helplessly. "I like it all anyway. The intimacy. I really like kissing."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Bruce almost laughed. "But orgasm?"

"I come by myself," Clark said and held up a hand, twisted it from side to side like show and tell, "or I don't come at all. I don't have to be gentle with myself."

Bruce sighed. "I wouldn't be satisfied like that. What if I wanted to make you come? Just me?"

Clark's mouth turned down as he thought. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's never happened."

At Bruce's expression Clark gave a dramatic sigh. "It's not that big of a deal. Orgasms aren't the most important part of sex. And I'm not some charity case."

"I'm not treating you like charity. Making you come is on  _my_ wish list," Bruce explained calmly, like trying to make a child understand that they were writing all their letters backwards. "Right after licking you from head to toe."

Clark laughed an uncomfortable laugh. "Well. Don't think about it so much. I mean, yeah, …it's a fantasy I have, but it's not a deal breaker," Clark tried.

"You fantasize that I can bring you to orgasm?"

Clark shrugged. "Like I said, just a fantasy. Um. Like the car. See?" He tried his best to make it clear to Bruce that he wanted him with or without the complications of trying to put them on equal footing sexually. He wanted what he could have with Bruce, not impossible things that he could never have with anyone.

Bruce leveled a considering look at him. "I don't give up easily," he said after a moment.

Clark laughed again. "Okay, I'll give you all the opportunities you like," he said with a wicked grin. "We can practice and practice and practice."

Bruce almost smiled. "I'm being serious."

"Me, too," Clark said breezily.

"This is a dead end," Bruce said with a sigh. "Okay, let's move on."

"To yet more reasons why we can't have a one-night stand?"

"Indeed," Bruce said.

"Let me guess: You don't believe we'll stop at one night."

"It's on the list."

Clark shook his head. "We can't plan for that. That's not a reason not to try. That's not even anything we can be sure of."

"It would be wise to have a plan in place in the event that one or both of us decides that one night isn't enough."

Clark laughed. "I'll be honest with you now: I already know one night won't be enough. That's not what this is about. Doing this once means that we have what we can have, enjoy it, and then  _pretend_  that it was enough for the rest of our lives. I'm telling you that I'm willing to lie to you forever if I can make love to you once."

Bruce said nothing. Clark's heartbeat was out of control and he couldn't believe he'd said all of that, but he didn't regret it, exactly. He guessed Bruce was quiet because Clark's honesty apparently knew no bounds. He'd just used the word "love" and had no intention of taking it back. Bruce would have to deal. He looked away and stared at nothing in particular, waiting.

"I think," Bruce said softly, "that you can guess what the next reason on my list is."

Clark huffed, eyes focused on the dumbwaiter, refusing to look at Bruce. "Hah. Yeah. I guess I know what it is. Not sleeping with you won't change it, though. You'll always know," he said and peeked at Bruce who was looking away from him as well, his expression impossible to read.

Clark looked at his hands, rubbed them together nervously. "At least, I hope you know," he said.

It was a long moment before Bruce answered. "Okay," he said.

Clark frowned. "Okay what?"

"Okay, come upstairs with me. Okay, I'd like to take you to bed. Okay, let's have what we can have. Once. Just once." He paused and took a long, slow breath. "I'd like to…make love to you. Please, let me make love to you."

Clark fought very, very hard not to react in any way that would ruin what he'd just heard. He nodded instead, a firm, confident gesture he didn't feel.

"Tonight?" he asked.

Bruce seemed to think. "Yes," he said. "If it's okay with you?"

His eyes were dark, but open, inviting Clark to look all he wanted, to understand what was and wasn't being offered. Clark looked back, let his face show everything he hoped for, everything he wanted to give and needed to take. Neither man backed down and that was good. That was normal. They could work out the details of what came after later.  _After_.

Clark stood, undid his bow tie carefully, and held out a hand to Bruce. "Yes, Bruce," he said. "Yes, it's okay with me."

The End

"Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me."

-John Donne, Holy Sonnet 14


End file.
